


The living water of salvation

by squiddz



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), BAMF Anathema Device, BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), F/M, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), South Downs Cottage (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-24 21:55:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22005073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squiddz/pseuds/squiddz
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale have moved out of London and are enjoying their new quiet life in the countryside. It is the last place Aziraphale expected one of his worst fears to manifest itself.(Or, Crowley gets splashed with holy water and Aziraphale has to figure out how to save him before it destroys him entirely.)
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 76
Kudos: 235





	1. Chapter 1

Moving to the countryside had been a way to start the rest of their lives with a blank slate. Crowley had been the one to bring it up first, a casual suggestion one evening while soaking up each other's company in the back room of the bookshop. Aziraphale had given a non-committal hum in response and thought that would be the end of it, but to his surprise Crowley continued to float the idea on several subsequent occasions. If he was honest, the thought of tearing up the centuries-old roots he'd burrowed into London was more than a little daunting. But as the months passed, he realised that many of the fond memories he had of the city had been soured by the whole Armageddon business. Shadows of anxiety and impending doom hung over all his favourite spots, and the echoes of terrible words, borne out of fear and hurled at Crowley in desperation, followed him along every street.

The thing that finally tipped the scales for Aziraphale was Crowley himself. It hadn’t taken long for their relationship to develop into something more romantic once Heaven and Hell had left them to their own devices. While Aziraphale found this development - and the new depth of emotional intimacy that came with it - thrilling, it meant Crowley had stopped trying to hide how worn out and tired he was, and he frequently looked like his skin was stretched far too thinly over his bony frame. Moving away was something they both needed, and that seemed to settle the matter. They found a lovely little cottage in a village on the South Downs not far from the seaside, with plenty of room for Aziraphale's books and a conservatory at the back for Crowley's plants. And so, almost a year to the day that the world hadn’t ended, they said their goodbyes to London and began their hard earned retirement in the country.

Village life was something of an upheaval. Despite finding themselves in a place with a fraction of the population of London, it was the most either of them had properly interacted with humans in quite a long time. Aziraphale took to it immediately, only too happy to help organise village fetes and volunteer time at the local library. Crowley generally preferred to remain reclusive, pottering around the cottage and transforming the surrounding plot of land into a beautiful country garden. When Aziraphale tried cajoling him into meeting some of their neighbours, he'd expressed concern that they might attract some unpleasant attention. But as it turned out, most people in the British countryside fell somewhere on the eccentric spectrum of things, and the villagers were rather taken by the charmingly old-fashioned gentleman married to a retired rock star with sharp cheekbones and an apparently very green thumb.

The longer they lived outside of London, the more Aziraphale noticed a change in Crowley. The rigid walls in his chest began to crumble and decay, and a gentle tired happiness crept out through the gaps. Aziraphale would watch him in the garden from their kitchen window, smiling fondly as he pruned the leaves from his favourite rose bush, wiping at a streak of dirt on his cheek. A corner of the garden became a patch of herbs that Crowley harvested regularly and even began distributing to a few neighbours. Sometimes Aziraphale would come home after a day helping out at the library to find that Crowley had decorated a few tables around the house with vases full of fresh flowers from the garden. Building their life together filled a void in Aziraphale's heart that he hadn't even noticed was there. It was the happiest he could remember being in an exceptionally long time.

He was certainly  _ not _ expecting this to be the place where one of his oldest fears would finally manifest into reality.

It was around Easter, well over half a year since they'd moved. Aziraphale started the day like most others - sitting in bed reading a book while morning unfolded behind the curtains. Crowley stirred next to him under the downy comforter. He was facing away from Aziraphale, nothing but the slope of his shoulders and a few tufts of auburn hair visible above the covers. With a tender smile, Aziraphale reached out and began gently tracing the line of his spine with a finger. The demon shivered a little under the touch and rolled onto his back, looking up from his pillow in a sleepy haze.

"Good morning, dear," Aziraphale said.

"Nnngh," replied Crowley.

He rolled over again to burrow his face into the side of Aziraphale's thigh and flopped a slender arm across the angel's lap.

"Are you ready to help with the Spring Fair this morning?" Aziraphale asked, weaving his fingers through untamed red hair.

Crowley groaned before he turned his head upward to reveal an annoyed scowl, eyes entirely engulfed in yellow.

"Do we have to?" he asked, voice still thick with sleep. "Was rather hoping to have a lazy Sunday morning in bed with my  _ hussssband _ ."

He slithered himself a little more into Aziraphale's lap and knocked the book out of his hand.

"Oh, for goodness sake," he said with a roll of his eyes. "And, yes, we promised Barbara we'd be there to help set up. She's counting on your keen gardening skills to help with the flowers, you know."

He felt a puff of warm breath through the fabric of his pyjamas as Crowley chuckled. "Those geraniums don't know what they're in for."

Aziraphale shuffled himself further down into the comforter so he could lie parallel to Crowley, their noses nearly touching. In the early morning light, Crowley's eyes glittered like a pair of topaz gems. It weakened Aziraphale's resolve, and for a moment he wanted nothing more than to forget the silly affairs of humans and just lie there forever, staring into those pools of saffron.

"I think it's probably for the best that you don't shout at the plants today, my love."

"Just a stern talking to, then," Crowley said, tipping his head to kiss the end of Aziraphale's nose.

"Perhaps dispense with the botanical retribution altogether," Aziraphale replied. "I don't want anyone starting to think we're odd."

Crowley quirked an eyebrow at him. "Think that ship's sailed, angel."

Aziraphale smiled and pressed a warm kiss to his lips. "Even so, I think it's best if we don't become that eccentric couple that shouts at the topiary."

Crowley sighed and shut his eyes. "Can't we just stay here for today? I'm rather comfortable."

"Well," Aziraphale said between more kisses, pushing Crowley's shoulder over to pin him onto his back, "I could make it worth your while."

He pressed his whole body onto Crowley's, kissing a trail down the side of his neck. The demon moaned softly and looped his arms around Aziraphale’s shoulders.

"Angel," he murmured into his ear, "if I didn't know any better, I'd say you're trying to tempt me."

Aziraphale dipped his tongue into the hollow at the base of Crowley's neck, right above his collarbone.

"Hmm, must have me mistaken for someone else," he breathed over the wet skin. The rest of the conversation evaporated as Crowley came undone beneath Aziraphale's tongue.

When they finally got out of bed - Aziraphale glowing a little brighter, Crowley smirking a little harder - the sun was fully up past the horizon. They ate breakfast (or, more accurately, Aziraphale ate breakfast, and Crowley had a cup of coffee) and then headed out the door, hand in hand. The pair of them took their time meandering their way down to the village center, keen to make the most of the beautiful morning. There was barely a cloud above them as a gentle breeze carried the promise of warmer weather just around the corner. Delicate petals of hawthorn blossoms carpeted the pavement like paper confetti, sticking to the soles of their shoes. Aziraphale took in a breath of the pleasant air and felt it lift his spirits like a flag waving proudly in the wind. He squeezed Crowley's hand, who returned it with a playful nudge of his elbow. It was on mornings like these that Aziraphale utterly adored the countryside.

The Spring Fair was slated to take place in the village square, a large cobbled area thronged by shops and old buildings. The crown jewel at the top of the square was the village church, an ancient stone building with heavy oak doors that both Crowley and Aziraphale took great care to skirt around at a healthy distance. That morning the whole place was a chaotic flurry of activity as preparations for the fair got underway. Littered about the square were piles of folded plastic tables and rolled up canvas tents and boxes of local produce waiting to be sold later in the day - jams and eggs and fresh vegetables. Colourful bunting had already been threaded between lamp posts, bouncing happily in the soft breeze.

"Good morning you two!" a cheery voice said from behind them.

Aziraphale turned around to see Barbara - the head of events on the local council - approaching them, clipboard in hand. She was somewhere in her late fifties with short hair that had been dyed the colour of an aubergine and a face that never seemed to be without a smile. At just over five foot, she barely came up to chest height on either of them, and Crowley often joked that it meant all her enthusiasm had become dangerously concentrated.

"A very good morning to you as well," Aziraphale replied warmly.

Barbara reached out and gave his forearm a little squeeze.

"Thanks ever so much for agreeing to help," she said. "I really appreciate it."

"Oh, not at all," Aziraphale replied with a bright smile. Crowley hummed in agreement next to him.

"There'll be more hands coming along soon, most of the usual help are at mass this morning," she said, flipping bits of paper on the clipboard. "I guess neither of you are particularly religious?"

Aziraphale and Crowley exchanged a glance. It was one of those things they really should have had a prepared answer for, but the topic wasn't something either of them particularly relished thinking about.

"Erm, well..."

A look of horrified embarrassment passed across Barbara's face as she clamped her hand over her mouth, clearly coming to her own conclusions.

"Oh good god, of course you two-- ah, sorry, didn't mean to pry like that."

"Ah, no no, it's just, erm, well, you see--" Aziraphale stammered.

Crowley leaned over Aziraphale's shoulder and gave his best charming smile. "I wouldn't worry, you just reminded him that the last time I was in a church, I nearly burst into flames."

Barbara laughed, a shrill sound like a squawking bird, and swatted at Crowley's arm. "Oh, come off it, Anthony!"

Aziraphale laughed nervously and leaned into Crowley's side. "Come now darling, it wasn't quite so dramatic."

"Alright then," Barbara said, back to focusing on the logistics of the fair. "Ezra, strapping lad that you are, can you help set up the tables?"

"Of course, happy to."

"Excellent. I've got to go and find out if the prizes for the bloody raffle have turned up. Anthony, love, I think Carol wanted to talk to you about the hanging flower baskets."

Crowley nodded an affirmative, and Barbara left them with a cheerful smile as she headed off to the other side of the square. Aziraphale gave Crowley a sidelong glance.

"Really, dear?"

"What?" the demon asked with feigned innocence. "It was the truth, wasn't it? And I seem to remember it was a  _ little _ bit dramatic."

"Go sort out your flowers," Aziraphale said, failing desperately at keeping a smile from tugging at his lips.

He watched Crowley as he sauntered across the square, coming to a stop in front of a plump woman wearing her grey hair in a bun and surrounded by pots of colourful pansies and geraniums. Crowley looked back over his shoulder and smiled playfully at Aziraphale. It was the smile of a shared secret, a little gesture meant only for the two of them. Aziraphale could still scarcely believe he got to have moments like that with Crowley now.

He got down to the business of moving plastic tables and setting up a few tents about the square. It wasn't long before the church bells rang out proudly across the village, signalling the end of mass. Aziraphale gently put down the table he was carrying to look out across the square and watch the congregation pour out of the doorway, all chattering happily amongst themselves. Each clanging peal of the bells resonated deeply inside him, right through to his angelic core, vibrating between each multidimensional fiber. Once upon a time it had made him feel whole and powerful, had made him feel loved. But now it was like pressing a wound and finding shrapnel still buried beneath the skin.

The congregation gathered on the church steps, punctuated by swaying green fronds. Of course, it was Palm Sunday. Aziraphale sighed heavily. He could still remember that day in Jerusalem - the excitement crackling through the crowd like electricity, the deafening cheers upon the arrival of Jesus, the carpet of palm fronds that ushered him through the gates. He'd watched it all with a helpless sorrow, knowing full well what would happen to the young man once he was in the city. He still sometimes wondered if he should have tried harder to do something, to intervene. It probably wouldn't have mattered either way.

Perhaps if he hadn't been so lost in his own thoughts, Aziraphale might have noticed the priest in the doorway sooner, holding an ornate silver bucket and grabbing hold of the aspergillum. He might have been quicker to remember the blessing after Palm Sunday mass. Instead, it wasn't until a line of fat droplets of water sailed over the gathered crowd that panic at last sliced through his introspection.

_ Holy water _ .

Aziraphale stumbled away from the tables, eyes sweeping over the square and straining to pick out a shock of red hair or a familiar lanky silhouette. Finally, he spotted Crowley standing frighteningly close to the church, back turned to the building with his hands on his hips as he thoughtfully inspected a flower basket hanging from a lamp post.

"Crowley!" he hissed.

Speed was not something most people associated with Aziraphale. He was, after all, A. Z. Fell the book collector, or Ezra the semi-retired librarian - nothing that cut a particularly athletic figure in the minds of anyone. But he was also Principality Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate and Self-Appointed Protector of the Demon Crowley, and - with a divine flash in his eyes that spoke of deep and ancient power - he appeared at his side in a matter of seconds.

"Aziraph--"

Crowley was abruptly cut off as Aziraphale grabbed him forcefully by the shoulders and planted his body firmly between demon and church. Water sprinkled across the back of Aziraphale's coat, pinpricks of cold seeping through the fabric. For one blissful moment, relief flooded through his chest. He'd been just in time.

Then Crowley slumped forward, clutching at Aziraphale's sleeves, as a strangled noise escaped from the back of his throat.

"Crowley?"

Crowley's face pressed against Aziraphale's chest, which dislodged his sunglasses and revealed a pair of frantic yellow eyes staring up in quiet terror. A few wisps of smoke curled next to his ear and dread solidified in Aziraphale's stomach as his gaze followed the white tendrils down past Crowley's jawline, landing on a small black speck on the side of his neck. It made a faint sizzling sound and was ever so slowly growing larger, eating away at the demon’s skin. Aziraphale stared at it while his jaw clenched shut. He tried to tell his body to move, to do something,  _ anything _ . But he couldn’t even remember how to breathe anymore, his chest crushed under the weight of 150 years worth of fear collapsing on him at once. All he could do was keep up the iron-clad grip on Crowley's shoulders to prevent him from crumpling onto the ground.

"How are you lads getting on over he-- Oh my god , is he alright, Ezra? Shall I call someone?"

Aziraphale whipped his head around to find Barbara staring at the pair of them in wide-eyed horror. He dimly registered that she was reaching for the phone in her back pocket, and it finally jolted his corporation into action. With a snap of his fingers, Barbara stopped what she was doing and stared blankly at him. After a second or two, she wandered off, completely disinterested in the two supernatural beings clutching at each other outside the church. 

When he turned back to face Crowley, he was listing dangerously to the side, still stuttering out broken sounds and clawing at Aziraphale's arms in a desperate attempt to remain upright. The spot on his neck had already grown to the size of a coin, and next to the blackened pockmark, Crowley looked disturbingly pale. 

"Crowley..." he said quietly, barely managing to keep the quiver out of his voice. His mouth had gone completely dry and he licked his lips nervously. “My love, please just… please just hold on.”

With trembling hands, he pulled Crowley in close and shut his eyes. This was going to require a lot of focus. He took a deep, steadying breath and then snapped his fingers.

The village center warped and bulged around them, before it twisted itself into the familiar walls of their bedroom. Crowley stumbled backwards, and Aziraphale managed to clumsily maneuver him onto their bed. He immediately untangled the sunglasses still hanging from one ear and flung them to the side. In an attempt to steady his own hands more than anything, he took a firm hold of Crowley's face and flinched at how scorching hot the skin was under his fingers.

"Crowley. Darling, look at me."

Crowley's eyes were wild and unfocused, completely yellow and glowing like embers. He grabbed fistfuls of Aziraphale's waistcoat and pulled his face into the balding fabric to let out an agonised wail. The sound tore at the seams of Aziraphale's heart.

"Oh, my dear… here, lie down, that's it."

He guided Crowley's head back onto some pillows, and hoisted up his legs to settle him onto the bed. The poor demon was writhing in pain, his anguished cries muffled behind clenched teeth. Aziraphale knelt on the edge of the bed and leaned over him, gently pinning his shoulders into the mattress so he could take a better look at the injury. The black mark was still smoking and growing ever larger, the border where it met skin curling like the blackened edge of burning paper. 

"Here, let me just…"

Aziraphale brought a hand over his neck, open palm facing the wound. The air around it started rippling with holy energy, causing the black mark to crackle and hiss. Crowley let out a protracted cry and recoiled immediately, curling onto his side.

"Don't - don't - do that -  _ fuck _ ," he managed between ragged breaths.

Aziraphale immediately withdrew his hand to his chest. Panic started to tighten its grip around his ribcage again as he watched Crowley's fingers twist into the bed sheets, body shuddering as he all but sobbed into the pillow. By now, his forehead was slick with sweat, trapping swathes of his hair against his face. Aziraphale floundered for an idea, but it was like trying to grab a hold of the receding tide. At a loss for what else to do, he gently placed a hand on Crowley's cheek.

"Rest, dear," he said softly.

The blessing took hold immediately. Crowley's eyes fell shut and his body at last went slack. Aziraphale stayed where he was for a few moments, hovering above Crowley and watching his face intently for any signs of distress. When the demon remained motionless, Aziraphale sighed heavily and bent over to plant a kiss on the side of his now sleeping head.

Heaving himself to his feet, Aziraphale began pacing about the bedroom as his hands nervously flitted between straightening out his waistcoat and dragging through his blonde curls. The black mark was steadily creeping outwards, corrupting more and more of Crowley's skin. He wasn't entirely certain what would happen if it continued growing, but it wasn't something Aziraphale even wanted to entertain. He swallowed hard and tried to ignore how much it felt like a clump of wet paper had been shoved down his throat. He tried to ignore how much it felt like standing in St James's Park, like sitting in the Bentley handing over a tartan thermos, like watching Crowley walking away from him while he stood under the bandstand...

Aziraphale shook the thoughts from his head and balled his hands into fists at his side. There wasn't any time for that sort of nonsense right now. All his focus needed to be on how to help Crowley. Certainly he wasn't going to be able to do anything, but he knew someone who might. Nails dug into his palms as he clenched his fists, an attempt to ground himself. He allowed himself a last look at Crowley lying on the bed, pale and breathing unevenly, before marching out of the bedroom.

Downstairs in the landing was an old rotary phone, a prized possession that Aziraphale had insisted on bringing with him from the bookshop. As he picked up the receiver, he felt a sickly twist in his stomach as the ghosts of clandestine phone calls with Crowley emerged from the back of his mind - even the silly argument about whether or not they should bring it with them to the cottage ("You never know when it might come in handy." "Who even uses landlines anymore, angel?!"). He tamped all that down, willed his hands to stop shaking, and began dialling. His heartbeat throbbed in his ears as he waited for the person on the other end of the line to pick up.

"Hello? Anathema dear, it's Aziraphale. I'm afraid I could quite urgently use your assistance."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anathema arrives to help save Crowley - if he can be saved at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Excited to have the next chapter up! Enjoy some Anathema POV

Anathema hadn't expected to get on so well with Aziraphale. To be quite honest, she hadn't really planned on keeping in touch with anyone after Armageddon, except for Newt (who moved in with her) and The Them (who stopped by her place to ask questions and pinch a few slices of cake now and again). But then a few months later, she was trying to track down some obscure tome on occult practices, and Adam had suggested she get in touch with the fussy angel from the airfield.

"He loves books," Adam had said, sat at her kitchen table and stuffing a Bakewell tart in his mouth. "Got loads of 'em. I reckon he's got every single book in the world."

While that certainly wasn't true, Aziraphale did own an extraordinary collection. He was a little stuffy and stand-offish at first (and that was to say nothing of the demon that lurked in the back of the shop casting her withering glances), but once he realised that she’d only wanted to _read_ his books rather than buy them, he’d brightened up immediately.

It turned out that the two of them shared a fair number of interests, such as reading dense arcane books and drinking fancy teas and collecting all manner of esoteric objects. And as a being who had been on Earth for thousands of years, he was a deep font of fascinating knowledge that Anathema was only too happy to plumb over a spot of afternoon tea. They began meeting on a regular basis (the demon stopped prowling so much once satisfied that Aziraphale was comfortable) and before long a genuine friendship had bloomed. He would often send her books he thought she would find interesting, always accompanied by a polite note informing her to return it at her earliest convenience. She'd even prodded him into admitting his feelings for Crowley (she would never forget the charming shade of red he’d turned when she’d point-blank asked him how long he’d been wanting to bang the demon).

So when he had phoned her up, voice crackling like old lacquer as he asked for help, she didn't even have to give it a second thought. Dick Turpin had been filled to the brim with every book Anathema owned that even so much as mentioned demonology before her and Newt were flying down the motorway towards the South Downs.

The quaint cottage came into view from behind a flowering pear tree, looking every bit the postcard-perfect slice of English countryside. Usually a sight for sorry eyes, the view now made her stomach twist in nervous anticipation. The car had barely finished coming to a stop at the curb in front of the house when she swung her door open and dashed out, messenger bag clutched tightly to her chest. She rattled through the front gate and pounded over the flagstone path towards the front door. A heady mix of floral scents filled her nostrils, and she noted (with an excited joy that was quickly tarnished with a pang of sadness) just how much the garden had blossomed since she had last visited.

The front door was painted a shade of red that was far too cheerful for the occasion, and she was already knocking on it while Newt was still stumbling out of the car. When Aziraphale appeared moments later in the doorway, her heart plummeted. His usual glowing demeanor had been replaced with a sallow tiredness, and next to the bright door he looked terribly pale. Without hesitation, she stepped across the threshold and gathered him into a hug. She felt him flinch a little, but he still drew his arms up around her.

"Anathema dear, it's good to see you," he said as they pulled apart.

"Where is he?" she asked, deciding that the best thing to do right now was to simply get straight to it.

"Upstairs."

With a nod, she bounded up the staircase, the old wood flooring creaking as she went, while Newt and Aziraphale exchanged an awkward greeting behind her. She immediately made a beeline towards the main bedroom and had to dance around a few stacks of books pressed up against the sides of the upstairs landing that Aziraphale clearly hadn’t found homes for just yet. The door was ajar and groaned on its hinges as Anathema pushed it open to step inside.

The room was eerily still. A stuffy pale light filtered in through the curtains, catching the dust that danced in circles through air. There was what appeared to be a pile of tartan blankets on the bed, and another stack of books sitting on one of the bedside tables, a few of them scattered about the floor, left open and abandoned. Clearly Aziraphale had been doing some of his own frantic research while she was on her way over.

Anathema moved further into the room and saw a nest of red hair poking out from under the blankets. That was when she realised that it wasn't a pile of blankets at all and was, in fact, Crowley. He was lying on his side, eyes closed and completely motionless. In the pallid light his skin seemed to take on a purplish hue. Coming to a stop at the side of the bed, she gently pulled back the covers to get a look at his neck. She winced - it was just as bad as Aziraphale had said over the phone, if not worse. A huge black patch covered most of the side of his neck, curdling the skin at the edges and faintly hissing. When she took a closer look, the blackened area almost appeared to be moving, made up of many thin fibres all twisting and writhing against each other.

"It just keeps growing," Aziraphale said, having suddenly appeared beside her. "I'm afraid that if we can't stop it, it'll just… well..."

He trailed off and Anathema gently squeezed his forearm in what she hoped was a reassuring gesture.

"And you can't heal it yourself?" she asked.

"I tried," he answered quietly. "But it just made it worse."

His face took on a look of complete dejection and it tugged at Anathema's heart. She glanced over to the foot of the bed where Newt was now standing, craning his neck to get a look at Crowley and not doing a good job of hiding his horror.

“Okay, well I have one or two things in my bag we could try.”

In one fluid motion, she dipped her shoulder, plopped her messenger bag onto the edge of the bed, and started rummaging through the various jars and canisters and rune-covered artefacts she kept handy at all times (a good witch is a prepared witch, her mother always used to tell her). A little jar of calendula ointment caught her eye.

“This one’s useful for burns and stings,” she said, holding it up to the light while she stared at the malevolent patch of skin. “Um, maybe it could help?”

"As good an option as anything right now," Aziraphale replied.

She opened the lid (which gave away the jar’s previous life containing Tiptree cherry jam) and scooped some of the poultice onto her fingers. Tentatively, she reached towards the prone demon and touched a dollop of it onto the unorthodox burn. The ointment immediately vapourised as the black skin hissed in protest. Her hand snapped back in surprise.

“Alright,” she said, a little ticked off. “Didn’t like that, huh?”

She pulled a handkerchief from her bag to wipe her hand clean and tried a few more potions from her arsenal - witch-hazel, St Johnswort, lavender, aloe. They all met the same fate as the calendula, fizzing away into nothing but a few wisps of smoke.

“Well, that’s all the easy options exhausted,” she said, looking up at Aziraphale standing at her shoulder. The disappointment on his face was hard to miss, and Anathema felt a pit of quicksand begin to open up in the bottom of her stomach. "Aziraphale… I'm not sure how useful I'm going to be if not even _your_ powers can do anything."

Aziraphale sighed and shook his head gently. "My powers can’t heal him because they’re derived from holy energy. But you..." And now Anathema could see a small flicker of hope in his eyes, glowing like the dying embers of a fire. "Your powers are of the occult, much like Crowley. If anyone has a chance at helping him, I dare say it's you, my dear."

He placed a hand softly on her shoulder. It radiated a tranquil warmth that made her thoughts smooth out like the glass-still surface of a lake. A second later it was gone, and Anathema was back to staring at the collection of failed ointments sitting on the bed in front of her. Aziraphale shuffled around her to sit down on the bed next to Crowley's head. As she watched him reach down to gently stroke the demon’s hair, staring almost reverently at him, her heart ached in her chest. She knew how much they’d given up to have their life here together, how long they’d waited to get to that point in the first place. There was simply no way she was going to let Aziraphale lose it all now. She took a deep breath to steady herself, and then squared her shoulders.

"Alright then. Newt, help me get the books out of the car."

Twenty minutes later, the downstairs lounge was a clutter of old books and manuscripts that could have rivaled A. Z. Fell & Co. Aziraphale miracled up a fire in the hearth that enveloped the room in a golden haze, and then they all got to work poring over any volume that looked like it might offer a lead on how to patch up a demon with a holy injury.

Anathema had settled herself into an old leather armchair while Newt sat in front of the beautiful mahogany desk that occupied the space in front of a bay window. From the look on his face, he was having trouble parsing the archaic language used in most of the texts. The corner of her mouth twitched into a fond smile. She turned her focus back to the copy of _Compendium Maleficarum_ she'd balanced on the armrest next to her, when Aziraphale came in with a pot of freshly steeped Earl Grey. He set it down on the large black coffee table in the middle of the room (an obvious import from Crowley’s old flat), and took a seat on the antique sofa that once lived in the back of his bookshop.

“Anything promising?” he asked. He picked up the open copy of _Daemonologie_ he’d left on a side table and nudged his reading glasses further up the bridge of his nose. 

“Nothing yet,” Anathema replied. “Most of the stuff I can find about demons and holy water is about, well, how to destroy them…”

Aziraphale stiffened visibly and nodded. “Yes, of course.”

She watched him sip at his tea, hunched over the book. The shadows from the flickering firelight seemed to deepen all the lines on his face.

“We’ll find something,” she said, though the words sounded frighteningly hollow out loud.

Eventually the light outside turned orange, then pink, before finally giving way to a star-studded night sky. The comforting heat of the fire lulled Anathema into a light sleep, a tattered version of _The Key of Solomon_ perched precariously on her lap. Suddenly, Newt’s voice broke the silence and she started awake, book flopping onto the plush rug beneath her.

“What about this?” he asked. He was still sitting at the desk, hair sticking out at odd angles where it had been rumpled by frustrated hands, and was holding out an open book. Anathema scrambled up from her chair and joined Aziraphale as they huddled over to read the passage that Newt had his finger on. Squinting in the light of the fire, she took the book into her own hands to get a better look. She flipped it closed around her fingers to keep her spot while she inspected the leather cover; nothing she recognised, the grimoire of some obscure occultist.

“I know it’s not exactly a set of instructions on what to do if your demon gets splashed with holy water,” Newt said. “But this bloke says he tried summoning a demon and got the spell wrong, which meant it manifested all… partially formed. Then, according to him, he ‘bathed it in Hellfire’ and it ended up right as rain.”

Anathema flicked back to passage, fiddling with the edge of the wrinkled page.

“Hellfire, huh?” she mused. “Do you think that could work, Aziraphale?”

“Possibly. It would make sense, I suppose,” he said. “But our main problem is that Hellfire is something only procured through, well… Hell.”

“Oh,” said Newt, deflating somewhat.

Anathema's heart dropped as well. “There’s no one Downstairs that could help us out with that?”

Even in the warm light of the fire, Anathema could see the angel’s face blanche. “No.”

Anathema set her jaw, unwilling to let go of this thread after hours of searching for any loose ends to follow.

“Does it mention how this guy was able to get his hands on some Hellfire?” she asked, leafing through the grimoire.

“I don’t know, everything after that is written in some weird language.”

Aziraphale peered over Anathema’s shoulder. “That’s Latin, my dear boy.”

As Anathema began reading further, she felt a sense of unease descend upon the room and hang above her like a cold mist. It took her a moment to realise it was coming from Aziraphale.

“I suppose I’m reading this correctly?” she asked. “He used the summoning circle to--”

“--summon it directly from Hell, yes.”

Anathema nodded numbly to herself. Summoning spells were risky, with the potential to backfire in all sorts of horrendous ways, and she’d never attempted one herself. More importantly, she doubted Aziraphale particularly relished the notion of opening up a direct link to Hell.

"Well then," Aziraphale said with a tone that hinted at resignation. "Do you have everything you need for a summoning circle?"

"Wait, what?" she responded, bewildered. "You really want to try this?"

Aziraphale had already paced halfway across the lounge, picking up another book from a stack leaning against the sofa as he went.

"No, of course I don't _want_ to open a portal to Hell," he snapped. "Let alone put Crowley anywhere near it." His fingers ran up and down the spine of the book while he paced further around the room. He eventually stopped at the coffee table, put the book down, and picked up his empty teacup instead, worrying at the porcelain handle with his thumb.

"But I don't really see that we have much of a choice."

Anathema pursed her lips and swallowed against the anxiety prickling in her stomach.

"Okay, if you're sure. I think I have everything - chalk, candles, some oil… I'm pretty sure I have a jar of brimstone in my bag."

She was suddenly overcome by a heavy weight settling on her shoulders, the kind of weight she hadn't felt since she'd burned an old book behind Jasmine Cottage two years ago.

"I've never done this before."

A tired smile pulled across Aziraphale's face, and Anathema realised with a dull sadness that it was the first time she'd seen him smile since she arrived.

"I believe in you, my dear," he said, and Anathema found it impossible not to trust the comforting sincerity in his voice. "And I can help you. I've never done anything quite like _this_ before, but I've used summoning circles."

"Erm," Newt piped up, having largely been relegated to listening to the conversation since sharing his discovery. "Where exactly are we going to do this? Magicking up fire straight from Hell doesn't seem like a safe indoor activity."

Anathema glanced down at the aged hardwood floor peeking out from behind the rug that spanned most of the room. It would certainly work well as a base for drawing up the circle, but from the look Aziraphale was giving her out of the corner of her eye - a look like the rumble of thunder - she sensed that was out of the question.

"I guess we need to do this outside," she said, watching the angel loosen a little.

"There's… there's a woodland nearby," he said slowly, idly putting the teacup in his hand on top of a cabinet next to the fireplace. "Crowley and I go for a walk there every Saturday. If we go far enough along one of the footpaths, it'll take us to a clearing. Perhaps that might be a suitable location."

Anathema felt the urge to laugh bubbling up in her chest, despite the circumstances being decidedly unfunny.

"Going deep into the woods to perform spells in a moonlit glade? Sounds like some pretty old-fashioned witching to me."

Thankfully Aziraphale smiled again, and it helped ease some of the nervous energy rippling through her stomach.

"How about," she started, "Newt and I go get the car ready while you get Crowley downstairs?"

The lounge was a flurry of movement again as Anathema and Newt began gathering up a few helpful books while Aziraphale headed upstairs. As Anathema stepped outside with an armful of leather-bound volumes on summoning spells the damp night air clung to her face, dispelling any lingering sleep still stuck to her from the drowsy warmth of the fireplace. The beautiful hollyhock bushes lining the front path of the cottage swayed in the slight breeze, like they were waving her off on her journey. She hoped desperately that the next time she saw them, they would be waving a greeting to their owner.

Newt had already opened the boot of the car, so Anathema quickly unloaded her arms and closed it up with a thud that echoed sharply in the quiet darkness. When she turned back to the cottage, she saw Aziraphale in the doorway. With his hair backlit by the single light above the front door and Crowley held firmly to his chest, he really did look every bit an angel. Anathema fumbled to open the car door for him and caught a glimpse of Crowley as he approached. He looked much worse than before - his entire neck was black, and the corrupted patch now extended down beyond his collar bone, disappearing under his shirt, as well as creeping up the side of his face. Before she could stop it, she gasped, and immediately chastised herself for not having better control of her reaction.

“I know,” Aziraphale said, voice like sandpaper.

“We’ll make this work, okay?”

Aziraphale nodded stiffly and ducked into the car, settling himself onto the backseat with Crowley propped up against his chest. Anathema took a deep breath of the cool air, wincing as it cut at her throat like the blade of a knife, before she got in the car herself, settling into the passenger seat up front. The gear box growled in protest as Newt pulled away from the side of the road.

“Just get to the end of this street and take a left, dear boy,” Aziraphale said from behind them.

Anathema looked down at her lap, where she was clutching at the battered old grimoire. She flipped it back open to the page on summoning Hellfire and ran her fingers over the aging paper. The spell seemed complicated, and the author had included several warnings on the nature of Hellfire - that it had a mind of its own, that it had a tendency to try and break free from the circle, that this spell should only be used in the most dire of circumstances.

Twisting in her seat, Anathema looked back over her shoulder at Aziraphale. He was talking softly to Crowley, whose face was burrowed into Aziraphale’s neck, all scrunched up into a grimace of pain. The yellow glow from a streetlight filled the car for a split second, just long enough for her to see the desperation etched across the angel’s face. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Newt staring at her. When she turned her head to look at him, his mouth was pressed into a thin line and his eyebrows furrowed together in a silent question. Anathema bit the side of her cheek as she ever so slightly shrugged her shoulders. Newt nodded once and turned his gaze back out on the road. Yes, this certainly counted as dire circumstances.

Anathema had never been one to pray. There had never been any need for it before Armageddon, all her faith had firmly been placed in prophecy, and her brief run in with Heaven had only made the whole thing seem even more futile. Right now though, she wished there was some higher power she could call on to fix this. As it was, Aziraphale had called on _her,_ had put all his faith and trust in _her_ to save the most important thing in the entire universe to him. With hardened resolve, Anathema looked back down at the book in front of her, passages of Latin briefly flashing before her every time they passed another streetlight. She would not let Aziraphale’s faith in her be misplaced.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, I hope you are enjoying this so far. Your comments and kudos have been a boost!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally got this chapter done, thank you for your support and patience!
> 
> I dialed up the angst a little bit, I'm sorry.

The drive out to the woodland was usually quite a pleasant affair. It had become something of a ritual for them to hop in the Bentley every Saturday morning and drive along the twisting country roads that cut through the South Downs. Aziraphale would crack open the passenger window to let in the air still fresh with morning mist while Crowley tossed him a few playful looks from behind the steering wheel. It had surprised Aziraphale just how meaningful these mornings became. The Bentley was a piece of their shared life in London, and one that held some painful memories. It felt important to both preserve that bit of their history while reshaping the landscape the Bentley occupied in their minds. Their morning trips filled Aziraphale with a sense of peace he'd never known before, sitting in easy silence with Crowley as fields and hedgerows flew past outside.

But this wasn't the passenger seat of the Bentley, there were no secret smiles or lingering stares. Instead, he was crammed into the back of Newt's tiny car with Crowley’s clammy forehead pressed into the side of his neck. He rubbed soothing circles into Crowley's back as he all but growled with pain into the aging wool of Aziraphale's coat.

“It’s alright, my love,” Aziraphale whispered into the bird’s nest of hair at his face. “We’ll get you fixed up and you’ll be in tip-top shape before you know it.”

It was almost easy to believe, too. Crowley had been badly injured before - they both had been. Just an occupational hazard that came with the life of a field agent. He’d seen Crowley with stab wounds and nasty infections and myriad broken bones. Each time, Aziraphale had helped him as much as he dared risk - often simply providing a safe place for him to heal, sometimes nursing more serious wounds, but always worrying after him once he'd left. Obviously Crowley had ended up just fine every time, but this... This was the monster that had loomed tall at the back of Aziraphale’s mind for centuries, the nightmare he had evaded through lack of sleep. This was losing Crowley forever, and if he’d only been paying more attention, this never would have happened.

Aziraphale's downward spiral was abruptly derailed by Newt's voice coming from the driver's seat. "How much further along this road?" he asked over his shoulder.

Aziraphale strained to look out the window and assess their location. "There's a right turn coming up, take that and the entrance will be at the end of the lane. We're not far."

 _We're not far_. Aziraphale repeated the line in his head over and over like a rosary prayer. He shut his eyes and tried to imagine that he was sitting in the Bentley, surrounded by the smell of leather and cinnamon, and reaching a hand out to place on Crowley’s knee. But all he could see in his mind’s eye was Crowley twisting into a violently steaming black puddle.

The car rocked on its terrible suspension as it turned down a small uneven road, headlights flooding a sign with the words “Foxglove Woods” painted in green lettering. Newt pulled into the makeshift car park, gravel crunching under the tires, and came to a stop. The passenger door in front swung open and a wall of cold night air rushed in, hitting Aziraphale square in the face.

“Do you need help?” Anathema asked as she peered back inside the car.

“I’m quite alright, thank you my dear,” Aziraphale replied.

With a fair amount of stumbling, Aziraphale coaxed Crowley out of the car. His brief test to see whether or not he could walk under his own steam ended when Crowley's spindly legs collapsed under him. Aziraphale caught him, a jumble of limbs, and decided it would be infinitely easier to just carry him. He gathered up Crowley's slight frame into his arms and held him firmly to his chest, uncomfortable heat seeping through his clothing as Crowley buried his face into his shoulder.

“Almost as bad as when you’re drunk, darling,” he said with a brittle smile. Crowley made a small sound near his ear that Aziraphale pretended was a laugh.

He turned to the back of the car and watched Anathema and Newt gathering a few books and candles out of the boot and shoving them into Anathema's messenger bag. Once everything had been packed and the car was locked up, he lead them towards a narrow footpath of pounded dirt.

Aziraphale knew the trail well, his feet carried him along of their own accord, but it held none of its usual welcoming familiarity. A stifling darkness had soaked through into every inch of the woods. Tree branches that streamed golden sunlight during the day now loomed overhead like great mangled claws. All the lilting birdsong and humming of bumblebees had fallen away to the screeches and screams of owls and foxes. The only things grounding him were the quiet voices of Anathema and Newt following some distance behind him, and Crowley burning away in his arms.

"We're nearly there, my dear," he said, mostly to keep the weight of the silence from bearing down on him so hard. "Can you hold on a little longer for me, Crowley?"

There was only the crunch of dead leaves underfoot in response.

"Crowley?" Aziraphale nudged Crowley's head gently with his shoulder. It lolled to the side, neck alarmingly slack. The diffused moonlight laid delicately across the paper-thin skin of his closed eyelids. Aziraphale swallowed loudly.

"I see you've fallen asleep on me. Can't say I'm surprised." The words were heavy and he had to haul them out of his chest like dredging water from a well. "I suppose we were only here yesterday, of course you're bored to tears."

Somewhere deeper in the woods a tawny owl was calling, a quavering plaintive cry that echoed through the canopy.

"You were _quite_ disappointed that the bluebells hadn't come in yet. And when Bill from next door said that they probably wouldn't be here for another few weeks - well, I thought you were going to come back here and shout yourself silly until the whole forest was blue." He paused to suck in a shaky breath. "So if you want to see them, you're going to have to stop this nonsense."

His eyes darted back to Crowley's face, still unmoving. Aziraphale felt his jaw try to wire itself shut so he pressed on.

"Do you remember coming here the day after we moved in to the cottage? Found it quite by accident, didn't we. I don't remember many of the details, I was rather distracted as it happens. By _you_ , if you must know. Your hair looks so lovely when the sun catches it. I suppose if I were more poetically inclined, I might say something like… the dappled sunlight set your hair aflame, or some such. Although I know you'd tell me to shut up if I did."

He cleared his throat a few times in order to shake out the cracks in his voice. "And I remember you looked so happy. I thought to myself that it had been such a long time since I'd seen you smiling so easily. Reminded me of when we met." Aziraphale felt his chest start to heave, his ribcage suddenly far too small to hold everything in.

"You know, if I have to come back here to see the bluebells on my own, I shall be very cross with you, Crowley."

It was the last thing he could force out before his throat tightened and left all the rest of his words trapped inside his heart.

It didn't take long for the woodland to give way to a large open meadow, an expanse of tall grass decorated with colourful bursts of wildflowers. They were lucky tonight - a near full moon shone fearlessly in the middle of the inky sky, gilding everything in silver.

Aziraphale came to a stop at the edge of the clearing and waited for his two human companions to catch up. He turned to Anathema once she appeared at his side. "There's a clearer patch a bit further in, where the grass isn't so long. That's likely going to be the best place for us to, erm, get started."

"Sounds good to me," she replied. With a swoop of her dress, she took up a brisk pace towards the middle of the clearing. Aziraphale took a few steps after her and then faltered, arms drawing tighter around Crowley.

"I'll… I'll meet you there," he called after her. Anathema spun around to face him. "Shan't be more than a moment."

She regarded him thoughtfully for a second before flashing him a tight smile. "Sure, I'll go get things started," she answered, and turned around again to continue her trek. Aziraphale watched her go, leaving a trail of trodden grass as she picked her way through the field. He then turned his attention onto Newt, who was standing awkwardly at the treeline.

"Would you keep an eye on him for me?" he asked, gesturing at Crowley with a nod of his head. Newt jumped at his voice and raked a hand through his mussed hair.

"Erm, yeah, sure." They both knew it was an empty request, but it was a small comfort to keep up the pretense all the same.

Aziraphale bent down, his knees sinking into the soft dirt, and carefully placed Crowley onto the ground. Just as he was shuffling back up to his feet, he heard a faint murmuring. When he looked down, a pair of yellow heavy-lidded eyes were staring back at him. The tiniest spark of hope lit up inside Aziraphale's heart.

"There you are, my love," he said, stooping back down to run a hand through sweat-soaked hair.

"Whh-- angel, where…"

"It's alright, darling. We've just gone for a walk in the woods."

Crowley twisted his neck to look around and spotted Anathema further out in the clearing lighting candles. His brow knit together in confusion.

"We think we can patch you up," Aziraphale explained. "But it seems to require summoning Hellfire…"

Crowley grabbed at his wrist, the searing heat from his hand bleeding through the fabric of Aziraphale's shirt. "You can't…"

Aziraphale extricated himself rather easily from the weak grip and held Crowley's hand in both of his. "I know, I'd rather not either. But we'll make sure you're safe, the circle will be one-way and--"

"No," Crowley croaked. "Not... daft idiot - _you!_ Hellfire…"

Aziraphale almost didn't manage to bite down on the sob that attempted to escape him. Of course, even as some divine energy was destroying him from the inside out, Crowley was more concerned about Aziraphale's wellbeing.

"As _flattered_ as I am that you think me such a helpless fool," Aziraphale said, trying for a playful smile but landing more on a pained grimace instead, "I will, of course, be standing quite far back by the time any summoning begins."

Crowley gently shook his head, eyes full of quiet pleading. It was heartbreaking and Aziraphale very nearly turned away from him.

"I'll be fine," he said, almost a whisper. "I promise. So long as you promise me the same."

Crowley’s head flopped back down into the grass. Out here in the bright moonlight, the black marks curling up the side of his face like creeping ivy stood in stark contrast against his pale skin. His golden eyes flickered - whatever spark of energy he'd been able to find was fast extinguishing. With a soft sigh, Crowley at last nodded, almost nothing but a twitch.

"Well," Aziraphale said, setting Crowley's hand gently back on the ground. "That's that then, isn't it? We'll both be fine."

Crowley's eyelids drooped shut. Aziraphale swallowed around the hard lump in his throat and rose to his feet. He gave Newt an appreciative nod before heading out towards the center of the meadow, feet dragging through the dew-covered grass.

“I’ve got the basic circle done,” Anathema called to him once he was close enough to be within earshot. A few candles had been lit and were balanced on a nearby boulder. They offered scant lighting, a thin orange haze that felt like it could be carried off in the wind at a moment’s notice. “But there are a few alterations in the book that are kind of complex. Could you help me figure those out?”

Aziraphale pounced at the chance to help like he was clambering for a life raft. "Of course, dear. Let's get started, shall we?"

With the grimoire laid out on the ground, they began the process of building up the extra elements of the summoning circle - a set of runes here to provide a channel for the flames, a few lines of Enochian script there to ensure nothing could be dragged to Hell from their plane, only called through to it. The spell required more candles than Aziraphale was used to, thirteen all told dotted evenly around the circumference of the circle. Memories of the last time he'd set up a circle like this bubbled to the surface, along with an ice cold dread that sat heavily in the pit of his stomach. With a shake of his head, he swept the thoughts to the side. There was no time to dwell on that now.

Anathema inscribed the final piece of the circle into the dirt - a string of sigils along the outer edge to reinforce it and keep the Hellfire firmly where it was supposed to be. When she finished drawing the last symbol, she stepped back to look over their handiwork, one hand on her hip, the other at her side holding a large piece of chalk. She looked over at Aziraphale, candlelight bouncing off the rims of her round glasses.

“I think that’s it,” she said, voice coloured with apprehension.

“Yes, I believe so,” he answered. His voice felt strange in his mouth, his tongue too heavy. “I’ll go get him.”

Aziraphale walked back to the edge of the clearing on legs of stone. Newt was still standing next to Crowley, fiddling with the hem of his shirt. He gave Aziraphale a half-hearted, lopsided grin as he approached. Offering his own tired smile in return, Aziraphale crouched down over Crowley and scooped him up, trying very hard not to think about how lifelessly his body hung in his arms. He returned to the circle where Anathema was waiting, watching the two of them with the same worried expression that had been stitched into her face since her arrival at the cottage.

Careful not to knock over any candles, Aziraphale placed Crowley down on the ground in the center of the summoning circle. In the flickering candlelight, there was almost no colour left in the skin that hadn’t yet been corrupted by the burn. He took one of Crowley’s hands in his own, holding the limp fingers tightly as he ghosted his thumb over scorching knuckles. All of a sudden, Aziraphale had the suffocating realisation that if this didn’t work, this might be the last time he would ever see or hold Crowley. He scrambled to memorise every detail - the creases at the corners of his eyes, the dusting of freckles on his nose, the faint hairs on the back of his hand, that one obstinate curl at his temple that never seemed to want to fall in line. He’d had millennia for this, countless lifetimes to commit it all to memory, but it still hadn't been enough. How could it ever be enough? He looked down at their hands clasped together. It felt like the final cruel twist of the knife - he had to be the one to let go. He squeezed Crowley's hand tightly, hoping to press the feeling of it into his own, to burn the memory of it into his skin. Finally, he let it slip from him. 

Aziraphale walked out of the circle feeling like his heart had been scraped out of his chest. He came to a stop next to Anathema clutching the grimoire in her arms. She smiled, but Aziraphale could feel the nervous energy rolling off of her.

"I suppose there's nothing left but to begin the summoning," Aziraphale said, trying his best to sound calm despite his trembling hands.

“Yep," Anathema replied. She took a deep breath and fixed him with a look as hard as steel. "Alright, you go keep an eye on Newt for me. Nice and out of the way."

Aziraphale forced a smile and nodded curtly. Just as he was about to walk off, he paused and reached out to squeeze her arm. "Take care, my dear."

"I will," she said quietly. "Now go, I don't want to have to spend the other half of tonight figuring out how to heal Hellfire burns on an angel."

Aziraphale took one last glance at Crowley lying in the middle of the circle before he waded through the meadow and back towards the treeline. Newt was still waiting there on the edge of the clearing, ashen-faced and standing under the cover of a stout oak tree. Aziraphale joined him and the pair stood together in silence.

“Will she be alright?” Newt asked eventually. His voice was small and terrified, and it pinched Aziraphale's heart. He stared out at the candle-wreathed circle, nothing but a line of orange dots from where he stood, and the shadowy figure of Anathema that loomed over it.

“I’ll make sure of it,” he replied.

Even from this distance, they could hear when Anathema began uttering the summoning spell. As though waiting for its dramatic cue, the wind began to pick up and whip through the leaves of the surrounding trees, the sound like a wave crashing against the shore. Anathema remained unperturbed and continued reading the Latin from the grimoire flawlessly. As the words rang out clearly on the night air, the intricate shapes of the summoning circle began to glow a deep red. A few more lines into the spell, the circle burst into flames around Crowley's prone figure. Aziraphale clenched his fists at his side, trying to crush his anxiety in his palms.

Anathema carried on, not letting the change in the weather or the sudden combustion of the summoning circle distract her from her task. She continued dictating the spell and with each word the ring of fire began to grow. It rose higher and higher, reaching towards the sky until it towered above the treetops like an enormous bonfire. Aziraphale watched round-eyed as it roared with all the ferocity of Hell, sparks of red and purple leapfrogging through the flames.

Soon the fire began to move in unnatural ways, twisting and writhing and pulling itself into shapes as though it was a living thing. It spat arcs of crimson flame into the night sky before hurtling itself against the invisible barrier afforded by the circle. Anathema took a few fumbling steps backwards. The fire pulsed with bursts of purple sparks before it thrashed at the barrier again. Fear clawed at Aziraphale’s throat as he had the horrifying realisation that the Hellfire was trying to break the binding spells.

The flames arched away from Anathema and then charged forward once more into the protective barrier. A thunderous crack echoed across the meadow, and a wave of fire erupted over the border of the circle. Thankfully, Anathema reacted quickly enough and stumbled backwards, landing in a heap on the ground, but the blaze kept reaching outward, threatening to engulf her completely. Every single muscle in Aziraphale's body seized up in terror.

"Anathema, _shit_ ," Newt breathed.

For the second time that day, Aziraphale was left facing a considerable distance between himself and someone he cared about. He would not fail to protect his loved ones this time.

With a divine flash, Aziraphale appeared at Anathema's side just as the flames tried to swallow her up in an inferno of red and orange. He held up a hand and gathered as much holy energy as he could muster, manifesting a bright barrier of light that the Hellfire crashed into violently. He looked over his shoulder to check on Anathema behind him, still sitting on the ground with a horrified expression across her face. Pushing back against the onslaught of the Hellfire, he reached out his other hand towards her. It took Anathema a moment to register what was happening, to fully recognise that Aziraphale had appeared in front of her, before she finally gripped his hand and hefted herself back onto her feet.

Aziraphale turned back toward the towering flames. The Hellfire had grown frenzied at his presence, lashing at the shield, desperate to incinerate the divine entity keeping it at bay. With a deep steadying breath, he loosed his wings and stretched them out wide. The white feathers glowed brilliantly through the gloam, ethereal and pure next to the raging fires of Hell. He beat them towards the flames to reinforce the shield.

Over the roar of the fire, Anathema resumed the spell. With every blow against the barrier, Aziraphale felt an impossible heat billowing from the Hellfire. There was stinging pain that bit into his wings, his fingers, his face, every bit of exposed skin, and his knees wanted to buckle under the strain of overexertion. But Aziraphale stared steadfastly into the flames - he had wielded fire once, and would not be destroyed by it now.

Just as the blistering heat was beginning to seem unbearable, the fire at last pulled back and twisted into a thin column. It coiled in on itself and fell to the ground, becoming nothing more than a pile of glowing embers that glided across Crowley's body. Aziraphale lowered his hand, wobbling slightly as he tried to stay upright, and the shield dissolved into nothing. He watched the fire shimmer with muted shades of yellow before it began to slither its way into the corrupted skin on Crowley's neck and face.

Once the last flicker of flame had disappeared into the wound, a startling stillness fell over the meadow. Aziraphale let out a ragged sigh and slumped into a heap on the ground. The only other sound he could hear over thumping of his heart was Anathema breathing heavily behind him. He turned around to find her sitting down with her head in her hands.

“Are you--”

“Yes, _yes_ , I’m fine,” she said, looking up and waving frantically at him. “Go check on him.”

Aziraphale folded his wings away and tried to get to his feet, but found that his legs had turned to rubber. After a few false starts, he managed to find his balance and staggered towards Crowley, desperate to spot any signs of movement. He dropped to his knees next to the lifeless demon and nervously peered at his neck. The blackened areas of skin were now glowing red, blistering and bubbling like boiling water.

“Crowley?” he asked, his voice like wisps of smoke.

He reached out to cup his face, but the skin was so scalding hot to the touch that Aziraphale immediately pulled away. Nursing his hand at his chest, he stared helplessly at Crowley's face, desperate for his eyelids to flutter open and reveal a familiar flash of gold.

“Crowley, my love. Please tell me you’re still there.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first multi-chapter fic. I have several planned for the coming year so I wanted to test the water first. This one will be 4 chapters (I'm pretty certain, anyway). Thank you to everyone who has commented and left kudos on my fics this year! It's been a big boost to my confidence. As ever, come and say hello on [Tumblr](http://heavens-bookshop.tumblr.com) if you'd like.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this one, and I'll see you again in the new year!


End file.
